


washing up

by honeynoir (bracelets)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bracelets/pseuds/honeynoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Brian asks and the Doctor answers... maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	washing up

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of a missing scene, set sometime between _Dinosaurs of a Spaceship_ and _The Power of Three_ ; vague **spoilers**. 
> 
> Yes, so I wrote fic about washing up. I did write [almost 10k about cooking](http://archiveofourown.org/series/21295) once – what did you expect?

“A little faster, Brian, _please_!”

“Now, Doctor, you’ll have to wait.”

Rory concentrated on sipping his coffee and trying to decipher his new schedule. They were out of dishwashing tablets, too. ‘I’ll do it by hand,’ his Dad had said, with his sternest Dad-look. ‘You cooked, I’ll do this. The Doctor can dry up.’

So. His Dad and his son-in-law, helping around the house. Which should have been normal, but really, _really_ wasn’t. So far, the Doctor had broken the mug tree, thrown his jacket over the sunflower vase and played ‘accidental frisbee’ with Amy’s favourite platter, while his Dad had... overdosed the washing-up liquid. From his seat, Rory could see his father’s back, his arms as he moved, the flash of porcelain – and the Doctor’s sharp profile. His Dad was spreading great suds over a plate, rather pensively; the Doctor was sitting on the counter next to him, banging the heels of magenta slippers against the cupboard door and wringing three or four tea towels into a great sodden ball while glaring at the dishwater.

With care, Rory put his cup down. Maybe he could escape to the lounge without them noticing?

“This house...” his Dad said, so softly Rory had to strain to hear. “Was that you?”

The Doctor looked up at the ceiling, stilled his feet; answered just as softly, “Yes. It was.”

“The car?”

“That too.”

“My son answering the door dressed as a Roman? Three times that’s happened... twice with Amy-the-police-officer in tow.”

“Oh, dear. Ponds!”

Rory had long since decided that whatever he or Amy wore, it was only weird when they woke up still fully dressed – but he focused all his attention on the paper in his hand, in case the Doctor decided to _really_ open his great big mouth.

His Dad hmm-ed, sounding curious; Rory had to look their way again. Maybe they’d forgotten he was in the room? That had happened.

“It’s all very normal, Brian,” said the Doctor, “best just leave them to it. That’s what I do.”

“What about the pirate thing? I asked Rory, but he just wouldn’t say.”

“What pirate thing?” The Doctor sprang from the counter; landed on his feet; paced a tight circle between the cooker and the pile of dirty dishes; tossed the mess of towels from hand to hand. “I definitely haven’t –”

Dad bent his head toward the water. “Eye patches? Black plastic and red rubber bands?”

The Doctor stopped. “Oh! I see! Yes! Tangentially.”

“And Mels! Did you take Mels too? She always seemed so interested in the stories Amy –”

“Nononono. Not me, no no.” The Doctor was either wiping his brow very thorougly or trying to hide inside the towels. “Well, maybe a little.”

“Just disappeared, she did.” His Dad looked over his shoulder, past the Doctor and the towels, and met Rory’s eyes. “Was it Germany she went to?”

Rory feigned deep-thoughts-interrupted. “Hm?”

“Mels? Germany?”

“Yeah, right, Germany. She’s fine, Dad, don’t worry.” Mels. Best mate Mels who only called them her parents for a laugh. The Mels they’d never get to see again. Rory forced himself to smile.

His Dad nodded, and sighed, and turned back to the washing-up.

The Doctor weighed the towels in a hand; stacked them on top of a lonely orange in the very large fruit bowl Amy’s Mum had got them last Christmas, and crowded his Dad. “Brian, I’m sorry,” he said, in that throaty, earnest, not-as-low-as-he-thought-it-was voice. “My fault. Them reliving past lives, and Jeff daydreaming about working at NASA probably and the duck pond that still doesn’t have ducks and someone kidnapping your DNA and –”

“No one said ‘fault’.” His Dad half-turned, raised a dripping hand. “Jeff does work for NASA. Reliving what? Kidnapping?”

“Oh, nothing. Spoke too soon. They’re all safe now, so... nothing.”

“I’ll take care of the rest of this.” He patted the Doctor’s arm, wetting the sleeve. “Why don’t you get started on those... those milk drinks you were talking about?”

“Ah, yes!” The Doctor’s face crumpled; rebuilt itself around a grin. “Wait till you taste my pineapple-anchovies-double cream shake... Rory!” He spun around and came bounding towards the table. “I need to build a decent blender!”


End file.
